


Mashiach

by agarina_amigara



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Jewish Will Graham, M/M, inspired by vati's fcktber prompts, sacrilegious dirty talk, sort of anyway— they’ve fucked around before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26774326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agarina_amigara/pseuds/agarina_amigara
Summary: the prompt for day one of fcktober: "praise"Set somewhere in season 2. Will has a complicated relationship with faith. Hannibal shows him a new side of worship.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	Mashiach

Will Graham is as far removed from religion as one can be without making “proud atheist” a tagline on every social media profile he doesn’t use. A healthy dose of seeing, not to mention feeling, the worst of humanity will do that to you.

His mother is a woman of faith. Was. He still thinks of her in the present tense, like she could be a contact in his phone, an emergency contact in the file that sits in a drawer in Hannibal’s office. In death she is neither gone nor forgotten; it’s surprising for all the ways in which he doesn’t actually remember her. When he calls to mind her face (his eyes, his curly hair, a gap between her front teeth that he didn’t inherit, and thank god because Beau would have never had the cash to shell out for braces and Will was teased enough as it was) he only knows it from the faded Polaroids his father would hide until a particularly intimate night with a bottle of Wild Turkey left them strewn across a formica countertop. 

He knows his mother knew god. One of the few Jewish residents in Shreveport proper, her getting hitched to the likes of Will’s father had caused quite a stir in her community. The word traveled fast, had to travel because the closest synagogue was 30 miles outside town, and while she was never disowned, marrying a man like Beau (transient, bitter, stern) stripped her down to a shell of a woman, though she barely was one, and she’d lost contact with the majority of her family before she died when Will was on the cusp of 4 years old. 

He knows they celebrated holidays. He has a tiny blue wooden dreidel from his first Hannukah. His daddy keeps it in a box that’s bent from moisture and more moves than any stable kid should ever have to deal with. There are pictures, more Polaroids, of a table lain with food for breaking fast during Yom Kippur. A picture of his mother, ripped at the edge, balancing a baby he doesn’t recognize on her hip and proudly holding a plate of stacked honey cakes for Rosh Hashanah. 

Holidays with Beau were different. Christmas was the only one celebrated because it was the one holiday his father couldn’t get away with ignoring. Weak hot chocolate made with water instead of milk, a shitty plastic Christmas tree no taller than he was by the age of 10, and no snow unless work took them north. It’s all Will ever knew, so it’s as good as anything else.

Will knows who he is regardless. He knows that he missed out on his bar mitzvah. He knows he is a man anyway. He knows this because as far as he’s concerned, when he’s alone no one peeking out from behind the clouds can see him. His ties to any faith that could be claimed as his own died when they put his mother in a box and smooth rocks on top of her headstone. He’s certain that it doesn’t matter much. He’s blue collar, he’s a faceless white boy trying not to become his father. Same as any other. 

Nevertheless, when he rehashes all of this in the leather seat that has been designated as his in Hannibal Lecter’s office, the sentiment is shot down. 

“You asked me if I believed in god,” Will starts. Leave it to Hannibal to misconstrue in order to dig deeper into what makes Will tick. “I was unaware two doctorates gave you the qualifications to tell me what I believe.”

Hannibal smiles in that way that barely moves a muscle. Will hates it. 

Will wants to see him do it again. 

“My purpose in exploring the topic of your religious background was neither to affirm nor deny. What I am more than slightly disillusioned with is the idea that you are without culture. _Same as any other_ , you said.” He smooths his hand over an imaginary wrinkle in the leg of his pants that is crossed, ever so poised, over the other. As if Hannibal ever has wrinkles. “The Jewish people are bound together through generations by their resilience. Surely you feel it within you, even as you denounce works of God as being under his own name.”

Will huffs a breath. 

“The only thing I feel within me is a headache coming on.”

That smile again. He almost regrets missing it. 

“I’m only half Jewish,” he begins again. “And you’re well aware that I’m from an area with little to no prominent Judaism. It’s all backwater Baptists, a few Methodists here and there. Holy rollers that worship more like they’re experiencing possession. The inner calm of a synagogue is completely lost on me. I’ve never stepped foot in one. I was the only Jewish kid in school til we moved up north. If that’s what you want to call me.” 

Hannibal’s head tilts. Will can see the gears moving as if his ashen hair wasn’t covering his skull, that brain that makes connections just as quickly as his (albeit in a less traumatizing way) grinding over a thought Will isn’t sure he wants to hear.

“I have something else I’d rather call you,” he says, and Will feels the air in the room shift as if a fan has been turned on, a window thrown open. Hannibal’s eyes become sharp and dark.

So this will be one of _those_ sessions, Will thinks.

Will uncrosses his legs, doesn’t let them fall apart but thinks about it. He watches as Hannibal’s eyes track the movement. He likes Will’s legs. He likes all of him equally, but there’s a natural well defined musculature that Hannibal has praised in words long before he did with his hands. 

“Tell me, Dr. Lecter,” he drawls. He can feel the sticky tingle of arousal creeping up his thighs as he turns one of Hannibal’s favorite phrases back onto him. It’s so easy to step into a role in this room. He envisions himself in Hannibal’s chair instead of his own. “What would you like to call me?”

Graceful as a lynx, Hannibal’s rising out of his chair without so much as a sound. It’s almost sensual until Will remembers, _he’s good at moving silently because he has to be. Because he is a predator of the worst kind. Because it keeps him from getting caught._

When Hannibal steps towards him (only three steps, their chairs are closer and closer everyday, one day he’ll come in and Hannibal will perch himself on his lap and isn’t _that_ something to think about later) and sinks to his knees. Will has to keep very careful control of his face to make sure his eyes don’t widen. Loss of control around someone like Hannibal is dangerous. 

Hannibal’s hands come up to his belt. He’s nothing if not direct in his affections. 

“You’ve heard of the term _mashiach_ ,” he says, accent thickening to correctly pronounce the Hebrew word. Will has heard it. Hannibal’s deft fingers tug at Will’s belt. “ _The anointed one._ Belief in the eventual coming of the mashiach is a basic and fundamental part of traditional Judaism.”

Will does let his legs fall open now. Hannibal makes quick work of his belt and starts on his zipper. 

“There are thirteen principles of faith in Judaism. Principles I’m sure your mother would have imparted on you had she lived longer. Some of them you may believe even without your knowledge.”

Will’s lips are dry so he licks them, Hannibal’s eyes remain frozen on his mouth for a moment until he frees Will from the confines of his underwear. His eyes return to Will’s lap, unable to look anywhere else as Will fills out in his hand. 

“What kind of principles?” Will questions. The religious talk isn’t necessarily doing it for him but he loves Hannibal’s voice. Maybe ‘loves’ isn’t the right word. It isn’t a conscious feeling of adoration as love is, more a medicine that he feels withdrawal from if he skips a few doses. The presence of Hannibal cures and ails him in equal measure. 

Hannibal’s hand begins to move and Will has to suck in a breath as Hannibal resumes talking. 

“God is unique,” he says, watching his fingers. “Incorporeal. He is in everything and everything is in him. He knows the innermost thoughts and deeds of man.”

Will frowns. 

“Those don’t sound like things I believe.”

That smile again. A tighter grip makes Will sigh a breath. 

“You don’t believe them about God, no.” Hannibal’s eyes rake up his body like a blade. It hurts and it slides through his skin until Will feels as if he’s hit bone. Maybe he will. “But you believe those things about yourself. You are unique. You walk in worlds unseen to the average man. There is no mindsight like yours.” 

The compliment (because surely for Hannibal, a warped comparison to god is a compliment) settles heavy in Will’s stomach. It feels confusing and double sided and too much for his brain when so much of his blood is south of his neck. He hopes Hannibal shuts up soon, gives his mouth something better to do than sacrilegious dirty talk. 

He doesn’t.

_“I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the mashiach, and though he may tarry, still I await him every day.”_

Will thinks he’s heard that somewhere. He isn’t sure. He isn’t sure of anything but the slide of Hannibal’s hand— familiar, strong, overpowering. When Hannibal gives Will control it never feels like something Hannibal himself gives up. Even on his knees, it’s as if they’re sharing Will’s control, each of them a hand on two separate reigns. 

“You are the mashiach,” Hannibal says. It’s almost baffling. If only Will’s mother could see him now. “You are eternal. There is no other to serve but you. Though you may tarry I await you, steadily and unwavering. I never doubt your arrival. I know you will come when you are ready.”

Will’s chest is tight. Hannibal’s eyes rise to his again and Will sees in them something he hasn’t before. Something he’s never seen on his own face when he looks in the mirror. Something he may have seen on his mother’s had she lived long enough to show him.

_Worship. ___

__“Are you going to come, mashiach?” Hannibal whispers into the hollow of Will’s belly, mouth lowering._ _

__Will looks to the ceiling and, mouth falling open in a wordless cry of exaltation, sees god._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of have to dedicate this to Juliana, who fleshed out my "Will's Jewish on his mom's side" headcanon. I myself am not Jewish and mean no offence to those who are.


End file.
